Atelophobia
by Chaplin Hatlow
Summary: Psychologists can create a term to cover any shortcoming, whether real, imagined... or simply beaten into you from day one. And sometimes, the struggle to shake the label only fixes it more firmly in your mind.
1. Chapter 1

"Not your best work, Hotchner." The test paper fluttered to the boy's desktop, a thick-lined red letter "D" so heavily drawn that the double-underlines beneath it etched a tiny ragged tear in the paper. The sarcastic tone continued, "I want that back, signed, on my desk tomorrow morning."

The footsteps continued up the aisle between the lab tables, leather-soled oxfords squeak-clicking slightly as the teacher returned to his desk. The boy's eyes remained fixed on the glaring red letter, and one word whispered out, deafening in the silent classroom.

"Motherfucker," and before he could bite it back, students on either side snickered. He squeezed his eyes shut, tightly.

The boy was well and truly damned.

The boy didn't have time to apologize, explain or defend; he was forcibly jerked from his seat and hauled unceremoniously down the hallway, the furious biology teacher sputtering red-faced threats and angry promises. He stood silently as the situation was recounted to the principal, who had sighed somewhat sadly, then reached for the telephone to ring the boy's father.

Again.

Twenty minutes later, the boy left school, a copy of the disciplinary form outlining his three-day suspension tucked into his backpack. Ass still smarting from the vigorous paddling, blinking back tears of humiliation, the boy briskly began the three mile walk homeward, where the real punishment waited.

The boy's father was well-admired by his fellow attorneys and sorely feared by his legal opponents. A keenly-tuned legal mind, fierce and relentless in pursuit of the facts and figures to support his case; it was not uncommon for defense attorneys to refuse a case if Hotchner was prosecuting. His surgical precision in dissecting testimony was legend.

This was not a suitable opponent for a twelve-year old boy.

The boy stood before the big dark-paneled room downstairs, the heavy oak door that he eyed with apprehension every time he came in, right there in full view of the front door. That room held threats greater than those faced in any court of law, any prison, any imaginary film torture chamber.

He wanted to walk in, confident but sneakers dragged on the thick Persian rug, crimson threads weaving through the cream and grey, tiny lines of fear. He often thought that the red threads were blood, his own blood, shed in the countless hours, the endless sentences in his father's office. He was on trial, guilty as sin, guilty as guilty could ever hope to be. Any plea would be stared down, scoffed at, as he squirmed under his father's scornful glare.

"You are some piece of work, boy."

Then as if anything was more important than his son's fate, his father's eyes would slide back downward to the page that he wrote on, scanning, initialing, pen nib scratching on the thick legal paper. Moments passed, minutes as sweat beaded on the boy's forehead, trickling down the neck of his itchy starched school uniform shirt. Fists clenching, fingernails digging bloody crescents into his palm. Standing straight at attention, trying so very hard not to move.

Don't flinch, because one single motion could set off that one tendril of fear, curling up from the boy's stomach, inching it's way up into his throat. He could feel it, like a blade of grass, time-lapse unfurling like those seed-sprouting films in science class; pushing it's stiff green fingers up his throat, and that was all he could feel, this thing. This thing growing and prodding, and he clenched his jaw but the feeling was still there. He was so very afraid that he might try to force it down and clear his throat and retch, but the thing would shove it's was out of his mouth. The long green growing fear would burst out and he would vomit from the sensation, puking his guts out all over his father's desk.

So he chewed the inside of his lip instead, biting hard to take his mind off the fear in his stomach. The boy's chipped front tooth pierced hard enough to draw blood. It tasted coppery, like pennies, and he felt a flood of relief, knowing that he had drawn first blood, feeling a morsel of triumph.

"No, Dad, no, I made myself bleed, I punished myself, you don't even have to do anything because I already did it..." and he sucked and swallowed the blood, as quietly as possible, but his father's pen paused on the paper, mid-word.

Eyes still fixed on his report, pen hovering above the paper, his father would ask, slowly "What did I say?"

And the boy would try to take a deep breath, but the air somehow stuck, and instead of the confident, assured answer he dearly hoped to utter, he would whisper.

"You said..." and the boy frantically thrashed about in his mind, trying to recall his father's exact words, his precise command. "You s-s-said...'S-s-stand quietly while I think about … w-w-what to do with you.'"

The thing that had been creeping up the boy's throat snapped and recoiled sharply back to the hiding place in his stomach, and he flinched as his gut clenched painfully.

This was not going well at all.

Eyes downward still, the boy's father sighed, carefully placed his pen on the desk and closed the manila folder over the notes he had been writing. Palms down on the desk, spreading fingers out to flex his cramped hands. Closing his eyes, head leaning back, stretching the tight muscles in his neck. He rolled his shoulders, then inhaled slowly.

Eyes still closed, the man addressed the boy with slow, careful, measured words. Simple words that even this stupid, clumsy child could understand...


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, the boy wasn't sure which was worse; the waiting, or the hitting.

The hitting was bad, definitely.

But not today. Today, the waiting was definitely worse.

The boy wasn't certain how much time had passed since he entered his father's office. The mahogany-cased clock on the mantel fat-ticked away the minutes, but the boy had lost count of them as he stood tensely awaiting his father's full attention. It had been a good several minutes, he was sure, since he had knocked on the closed office door, knuckles white from clenching his fists.

A moment, two, five, then his father's terse "Enter."

The boy grasped the brass doorknob, turning it, scraping, and pushing the heavy paneled door open.

His father sat behind the polished oak desk, pen in hand, head bent over an open case file. A pile of similar folders stacked to his right.

The boy stepped forward slowly, studying the pattern on the thick, expensive Persian rug as he walked.

Four, five, six steps, and he was in front of his father's desk, eyes still down, hands clenched at his sides. He stood, waiting. His father remained silent, pen still scratching, the sound of a page being turned.

The boy stole a furtive glance at his father. Without looking up, the boy's father said firmly "Stand quietly while I think about what to do with you."

The boy swallowed and did as he was told.

And he thought back to the moment's transgression that had landed him on the threshold of a world of hurt.

" _Not your best work, Hotchner." Mr. Van Nuys delighted in the pronouncement, it seemed; drawling the words out slowly, tasting the boy's failure and finding it delicious. This boy was every smart, good-looking jock whose family status bought them a free ride through life. No consequence for the popular kids who teased and bullied their weaker, less socially-adept classmates. Scrawny little Eldon Van Nuys cowered and cried and plotted revenge, someday._

 _Someday._

 _And twenty years later, fate had presented him with Aaron Hotchner. Finally, Eldon Van Nuys could grind his heel on the throats of all the kids who had teased him relentlessly._

 _And he was going to revel in the moment._

" _I want that back, signed, on my desk tomorrow morning." Mr. Van Nuys was nothing if not sadistic._

 _He detested this boy, his privileged upbringing, his daddy's money. The picture perfect all-American family; daddy's private law practice, mommy's country club lunches, heavy enough on the cocktails so that she turns a blind eye to the extracurricular activity in her own household. Daddy has a mean streak; Van Nuys knew what went on behind the starched lace curtains of the Hotchner household. "Your daddy is gonna beat the shit out of you, you insufferable little prick."_

 _He sauntered back to his teacher's throne at the front of the room, feeling the wisps of dread and sickly anticipation rise off the child, curving and curling around his ankles, wrapping round his calves and sliding almost sensually up his thighs. Van Nuys paused ever so briefly, closing his eyes and anticipating giving himself to this almost sexual thrill of domination, a righteousness so deserved that he would wrap this moment around himself like a cloak of triumph._

 _But somehow, just then... the boy slipped up momentarily, losing his societal stronghold over the Eldon Van Nuys of the world, and uttered a profanity so damning, so undeniably foul, that the D-minus paled in comparison. Had Eldon Van Nuys been a smoking man, he'd have stepped out for what would amount to a post-coital cigarette._

" _Motherfucker." The boy had stage-whispered in front of a classroom full of giggling witnesses. No denying it now._

 _With a dramatic whirl, Van Nuys whirled and grabbed the flinching child in a steel-vised grip on the upper arm._

 _The boy had sealed his own fate._

 _Suspension was imminent._

 _And all Eldon Van Nuys could think was "Holy fucking Jesus, Daddy's gonna have you for three whole days." He bit down the excitement rising in his throat. He couldn't wait to get home alone._


	3. Chapter 3

The well-dressed man sat behind the heavy mahogany desk in his lushly-appointed home office, pen scratching notes onto a legal pad on his desktop. Busily sealing up any tiny leaks in the airtight argument he had crafted for tomorrow's hearing, everything else took a back seat. Edward Hotchner was not a multi-tasker; he felt that anything worth doing was worth his full attention. He prioritized easily, focused intently and finished with a flourish.

At this moment, the pending case was in the number one slot.

Waiting his turn at number two: Edward Hotchner's son, Aaron.

Aaron had been told, "Stand quietly while I think about what to do with you," and then his father returned his attention to his paperwork.

Hours passed, or so it seemed to the boy.

Actually, it had only been minutes, and not nearly as many of those as he would have imagined. But dread draws time to an achingly slow march. The boy stood as quietly as possible, per his father's demand; he tried desperately not to fidget.

His father hated fidgeting. He said it was "common". Like nail-biting. And whistling. Those were things that "common people" did, _low born people_. His parents were consumed by status, controlled by their desire to remain atop the elite of the city. "We are _Hotchners_ , Aaron... and _Hotchners_ have a certain responsibility to rise above the fray. Your grandfather made his reputation on hard work and respect, and it is our duty as _Hotchners_ to maintain the dignity that he so carefully built."

Aaron heard this speech on innumerable occasions, and it never failed to make him slightly sick to his stomach. His parents seemed to fall naturally into this echelon of grace and favor,as did his little brother, a picture-perfect blonde angel of a child. But for Aaron, there was a never-ending struggle to fit in his proper place in society. His grades were adequate, but not stellar; he was a serviceable second baseman but not an all-star, and he struggled mightily with math. Sometimes he sneaked out of study periods to watch the theater class rehearse; he ached to be part of something artistic. The one time he mentioned auditioning for a school play, there came an almighty reckoning and Aaron was still slightly confused about what theater class had to do with bringing shame on the family and yes, he liked girls but what did that have to do with anything?

Aaron knew that there was no argument he could make in his defense, no amount of pleading could allay the punishment to come. His brother Sean could sweetly intone "Please, Daddy..." and his father would bring down the moon so Sean could get a better look at it. But Aaron wasn't afforded that luxury; he wasn't permitted to call his father anything but "Sir". Anything else, in Edward Hotchner's opinion, showed a lack of respect from this lazy, sullen underachieving disappointment.

But being an insufficiently successful Hotchner was the least of his worries, and now Aaron stood fixed in the unnerving paternal glare. There was no escape, no diversion from the fury that radiated from his father in almost palpable waves.

"I said," his father intoned through clenched jaw, hands resting atop the now-closed case file on his desk. "I would like for you to tell me what happened in your classroom. Precisely what transpired that led to your being sent home, " his father's voice rose slightly, hands flattening on the desktop.

"Exactly how it came to pass that _you_ ," the man pushed himself out of his chair, "were _suspended,"_ he stepped slowly around the side of the desk toward the cowering boy, footsteps in rhythm with his words.

"Suspended like some white trash hooligan," the man now stood inches away from the boy, who ducked his head in shame.

"Like some white trash _hooligan_ ," the man repeated, grabbing the boy's upper arm, squeezing it painfully tightly as the boy winced and bit back a whimper. He jerked the boy's arm forcefully, spinning him around to face the full fury.

There was nothing else to be done. The boy swallowed hard. Twice.

"I.. I got a bad grade on m-m-my biology test," The boy very slowly raised his eyes from the floor, up the front his father's expensive gray wool slacks; the pale blue dress shirt, the silky "ECH" monogram on the pocket, shirt cuffs pinned with the grandfather's opal cuff links. The boy was outclassed, and he knew it. No sense in dragging the punishment out any longer.

"I got a D minus on my biology test, and I deserved it, because I didn't study enough. Sir." _Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,_ the boy thought. _Full disclosure. S_ till speaking to his father's shirtfront, the boy continued. _Small bites._

"I played soccer instead of studying the night before. I got the test back, and I was mad. I was mad at myself. And I swore, but not at the teacher, sir." He raised his eyes to meet his father's fiercely angry glare.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm really, really sorry. I apologized, and Mr. Franklin gave me fifteen licks and sent me home."

The man gave the boy's arm a shake, then tightened his grip even further.

"Would you mind enlightening me, Aaron? Because I would really, truly love to know what filth you felt was appropriate to spew in the classroom of the expensive school that I placed you in, the private school that befits our status in this town?" The man released his grip, almost shoving the boy away from him.

Aaron stumbled backward slightly. _Dead man walking, Hotchner._

"I... uh... I said the "f" word, sir." _There you go. Place your head right on that chopping block._

His father stood, almost stunned. A _damn it_ , he would have expected. Even a _shit,_ but... he shook his head.

"I'm sorry? You said... what?" Almost disbelief that his son, his own flesh and blood, could be that stupid.

Aaron cleared his throat slightly and replied.

"I said "motherfucker", sir."

The backhand was blindingly fast, and Aaron was on hands and knees on the expensive Persian rug before the searing burn registered. Then he was jerked upright by the wrist so fiercely that he felt something pop in his shoulder.

The waiting that Aaron so dreaded earlier?

It was over.


	4. Chapter 4

_Maybe honesty isn't the best policy._

He had truly thought, however briefly, that his father would have respected his willingness to admit fault and maybe, possibly give him a break. Reward his maturity? The boy winced at his own stupidity, his guileless stumbling into yet another incomprehensibly foolish moment of hope:

" _Would you mind enlightening me, Aaron? Because I would really, truly love to know what filth you felt was appropriate to spew in the classroom of the expensive school that I placed you in, the private school that befits our status in this town?"_

And he had helpfully thrown himself on the mercy of his father's court. But Aaron knew, had always known, that his father's judgment held no mercy. Not for him.

The boy winced as he shifted his weight ever so slightly, feeling the cold concrete dig into his knees as he knelt, carefully upright, no slouching.

He has lost track of time, how long since he had been ordered, no... _commanded_ into this position; his father's fierce muttering as he dragged the boy, hand twisted in the child's dark hair, down the basement stairs, wrestled the small storage door open and shoved the boy inside. The boy skidded on all fours, unfinished concrete shredding the knees of his jeans, painfully scraping the palms of his hands, his left leaving a smear of red trailed across the pale grey floor.

"... and if you _choose_ to live the life of a juvenile delinquent," his father panted heavily, reaching down once more to grab the boy's hair and jerk him upright onto his knees, the boy biting back a gasp of pain "It would be _remiss_ of me, dare I say, _unfair_ of me to not prepare you for the inevitability of your immediate future."

The boy's father leaned in close to the boy's ear. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for a blow, but his father spoke distinctly, quietly.

"You will kneel here on this floor, in this room, until I tell you that you may leave, and not before. You will kneel here on this floor, hands behind your head, until I tell you that you may lower your hands, not before. You will kneel here, on this floor, on your knees, upright, not resting on your haunches, until I tell you that you may get get up."

His father straightened, walked in front of the boy, and crouched, until he was at the child's eye level. Slow tears rolled down the boy's cheeks, tracing damp paths down his already-bruising cheeks, dripping onto his bare chest. His father placed a finger beneath the boy's chin as he tried to flinch away, and leaned in very close.

"You have embarrassed me for the last time, Aaron. I have tried and tried to reason with you, to help you, to give you direction... but you just have to defy me, don't you? You have all the answers, don't you?"

"I think that time spent in quiet contemplation of your poor choices is the best option. You can consider this your introduction to solitary confinement."

His father sighed, almost sadly.

"You have done nothing but disobey me and disappoint me and defy me at every turn." His father straightened, standing slowly, as the boy bit his lip, hands clasped behind his head, trembled on his knees. The man crossed to the door and turned.

"I'll be back in a few hours, and we're going to revisit this situation. I'm going to ask you some very hard questions, and I would suggest that you have some very satisfactory answers, or we start this whole process over again."

With that, the man stepped out into the hallway and shut the door. Aaron heard the bolt lock slide, and the room plunged into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

The darkness was almost a blessing. It wrapped around the boy, comforting but cool; he could slip inside and hide in it. His father thought that the dark would be frightening; it would show the boy how alone he was, how helpless. But the darkness didn't bully or berate him. It gave him solace.

In it, he found sanctuary.

The things that scared the boy were not lurking in the dark. The light was where monsters lived, right there in plain sight. You couldn't hide in the light; it glared brightly upon every transgression, harshly illuminating not only the grievous wrongs committed, but the instrument of discipline sent to correct and chastise the sinner. The Church itself, with it's threats of eternal damnation held no greater power of fear over it's most fervent believers than this boy's father wielded.

His eyes remained fixed on the sliver of light below the bottom of the door, watching for shadows, movement that would indicate his father's return.

Something trickled down the boy's face; sweat, maybe, or a tear. He knew it wasn't blood. Blood dried quickly. He inched his eyebrows upward and felt a thick tightness caking just above his right eye.

 _Something else to tell a lie about._

This is what the boy hated most of all, more that the humiliating lectures, the near-medieval atonements he was forced to complete, even more than the sight of his father's belt.

He hated that he was forced to lie.

Lying was a sin, it made him sick, physically sick, to be untruthful.

 _I fell down the stairs. I got in a fight. I wrecked my bike._

Most of his teachers didn't even ask anymore. They glanced and whispered and acted like they didn't see anything. He supposed that his expensive tuition bought not only a quality education, but plenty of silence, as well.

His father's voice, deep and quiet and full of unspoken threats, resonated inside his head.

" _You will kneel here on this floor, in this room, until I tell you that you may leave, and not before."_

The pebbly cement floor dug painfully into the boy's already-scraped knees, but he resisted the urge to shift his weight even slightly. He straightened and flexed his fingers, still clasped behind his head. They felt stiff and swollen already, nerves tingling in response to the sudden movement.

" _You have done nothing but disobey me and disappoint me and defy me at every turn."_

The boy tried to calm himself, tried to gauge the situation rationally, but he could feel his chest aching anew, unspent sobs trying to force their way out. He blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut.

"Don't cry", he hissed aloud. "Don't cry, that's what he wants."

He had been in this exact situation before, too many times to count. Punished and relegated to the dark basement storage closet, where he was to serve penance until his father's wrath was sated. Or, sometimes, until the cycle began anew. The boy turned to the only solace left; his own will to survive.

"Someday," the boy whispered. "Someday, when I'm big enough... I'll fight back." He swallowed, eyes still fixed on the slash of light that crept under the storage room door, waiting for the telltale flicker of a shadow, announcing his father's return.

At the top of the basement stairs, a click and hollow thud sounded as the door opened and shut. The boy's breath hitched, and he shifted his weight ever so slightly, the rough cement grinding into the bloody raw patches on his knees.

"NO!"

He startled, thrashing against what was holding him down, against the hand tightly clasped around his neck. He couldn't breathe, helpless... falling into darkness...

And then he awoke. Sweating fear-prickles burning on his arms, leg muscles spasming, chest aching against the band of anxiety that prevented a deep breath.

 _Where am I?_ Frantic eyes darting left and right, trying desperately to swallow, mouth dry, tongue thick.

The dim street light through the bedroom widow slowly revealed familiar surroundings. Dresser, mirror, chair.

 _Bed_.

 _My bed._

He looked down, fist still clenched in the patchwork quilt cover. Slowly, he relaxed his fingers, smoothing his hand across the cotton fabric. He took a slow, almost-painful breath, held it for a count of three, then exhaled.

 _It's okay._ _It's okay._

He pushed himself into a sitting position, drawing his knees up. He crossed his arms over his chest, comforting his sore ribs. He turned his head to glance at the alarm clock beside his bed.

3:34.

He had two hours until his alarm went off. He rasped his hand across his mouth and chin, up his jawline, beard rough against his palm. Leaning his head back against the headboard, he began to doze.

 _Someday,_ he thought. _Someday I won't have these dreams anymore._

And then he slept, the untroubled deep sleep of a child who knows that, at least for now, this darkness and this night holds no monsters.


End file.
